


The Vampyre

by Autodidact



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bloodplay, Consensual Non-Consent, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Gender Dysphoria, Illustrated, Knifeplay, M/M, Medical Kink, Mindfuck, Roleplay, Trans Jonathan Fanshawe, Trans Male Character, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:07:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26801131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autodidact/pseuds/Autodidact
Summary: Jonathan takes a beat to introspect and then he sighs, shaking his head and slightly smiling at what he finds. "Suppose I'd rather be the monster than the prey in stories like this.""Would you?""Would I what?""Play the monster. For me." Barnabas' eyes are glittering with ideas, and Jonathan finds that there's simply no denying him when he gets this way.
Relationships: Barnabas Bennett/Jonathan Fanshawe, Barnabas Bennett/Jonathan Fanshawe/Jonah Magnus
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28
Collections: Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus





	The Vampyre

It is quiet in the room, and cool, and Jonah has left for the evening but the bed is plenty warm without him. Jonathan curls behind Barnabas, hips pressed to hips, an arm under his neck, a thumb idly stroking his hip. Nose pressed to his hair. Chest not touching him.

Barnabas holds Jonathan's hand on the mattress loosely in his. Thumbs patterns into the back of it, feeling the tendons there.

Remembers the sight of them, an hour back, as Jonathan pinned Jonah's wrists to the examination table and shoved his artificial cock into his throat and held him there, like that, through his struggling. Remembers pulling Jonah's hips down on his cock, feeling his insides flutter. "Don't move," Jonathan had told him— _them_ —and Barnabas hadn't.

Jonathan looked so focused, then. Sharp and severe. Barnabas wonders how often he looks like that while working. He wonders what motivates him to turn that sharpness upon Jonah recreationally. Barnabas, in moments of passion, has wondered before what it'd be like to be in Jonah's place. Is wondering that now.

"Jonathan?" He asks, and Jonathan hums out a listening noise, breath disturbing his hair. Barnabas continues. "Have you ever thought about being rough with me? Like you are with Jonah?"

A slow and thinking inhale. Jonathan nuzzles at the back of Barnabas' head. "You've never asked."

"But you've thought about it," Barnabas states and squeezes Jonathan's capable hand.

"I have." There is no shame in Jonathan's voice, nor guilt. It is not a particularly surprising fact, given how often Barnabas is present to see Jonathan at his most sadistic. But now, in bed, Jonathan presses a lingering kiss to Barnabas' hair. "But you deserve kindness."

Barnabas scoffs, chuckles. Moves away from Jonathan to roll onto his back, wanting to see his face. "And Jonah doesn't?"

Jonathan, without his glasses, can still see Barnabas fine this close. He rolls over onto his stomach, moves his arm to lay across Barnabas' chest, and half-buries his face in the pillow they're awkwardly sharing. "He gets plenty of kindness from you," Jonathan says. "And from me, afterwards." Dressed injuries and soothing touch. Warmth and water and snacks, on occasion. Reassurance. Praise.

Barnabas pats Jonathan on the forearm and looks at his closed eyes, dark lashes against dark skin. He finds the sweep of them beautiful, but he doesn't tell Jonathan that. There are some compliments, he's learned, that are best avoided. "I'm kind of curious about it. Watching you, with Jonah, it's—ah. You're attractive, is all."

 _"Am_ I." Jonathan's mouth quirks into a wicked, lounging grin. Barnabas is put in mind of a lion, reposing.

"Unfairly," Barnabas says. _"Devilishly_ attractive, even."

Jonathan is looking at him now: dark pupils, wide in the room's low light; molasses-brown irises, dark lashes. Barnabas doesn't usually see mischief in the look of people who are not Jonah, but he certainly sees it now. "Well. What do _you_ think about, then?" Jonathan asks.

Barnabas is at a loss of focus; loss for words. It's hard to think, being observed— _dissected_ —as he is. "Oh. I'm not sure. Nothing in particular."

Jonathan moves in to kiss him then, on the cheek, and chastely on his lips. Less chaste when Barnabas parts his lips and licks into his mouth, and Jonathan falls into it, responding in kind. Bites his bottom lip, just a little, and listens to Barnabas' breath catch. Jonathan's grin is broader than before when he lets him go.

"When you have some ideas, let me know."  
  


* * *

  
It is a sunny afternoon, and the parlour windows are open to allow the breeze to refresh the space. Barnabas often likes to keep them open and listen to the sounds of the city: to the birds and voices and cart-wheels, for he loathes the sound of silence. On Sunday the city is quieter than usual, and Jonathan is filling the air by reading aloud from a little book that Jonah brought over on his last visit—the man reads with a voracity that speaks to his appetites, with a well-matched good sense of which of his friends and acquaintances would be interested in picking up whichever volume he's just closed the cover on. Jonathan doesn't mind the quiet—prefers it, honestly, for the break from conversation with strangers or near-strangers in his office it affords him—but for Barnabas' sake, he'll read aloud. These are not his words, and he doesn't need to think any further than the meagre attention required to give voice to them. Not that he finds conversation with Barnabas difficult or tiresome; the man is affable and very easy to get along with.

Presently, Barnabas is curled up next to him on the settee, head on a pillow and the pillow on his folded arms. He is taking a break from his attempts at embroidery to rest his hands and doze for a time. Whenever Jonathan turns to the next page, he ruffles or scratches Barnabas' hair before he begins reading again.

_"—and he felt himself grappled by one whose strength seemed superhuman: determined to sell his life as dearly as he could, he struggled; but it was in vain: he was lifted from his feet and hurled with enormous force against the ground:—his enemy threw himself upon him, and kneeling upon his breast, had placed his hands upon his throat—when the glare of many torches penetrating through the hole that gave light in the day, disturbed him;—he instantly rose, and, leaving his prey, rushed through the door, and in a moment the crashing of the branches, as he broke through the wood, was no longer heard."_

Jonathan continues on, and each of them are peaceful in spite of the monstrous things being described. Barnabas sighs in contentment as Jonathan turns a page and Jonathan pauses, expecting to hear him speak.

"What is this one again?" Barnabas asks.

Jonathan lays a finger across the page to mark his place and flips back to the beginning. " _The Vampyre._ The title page says it's Byron, but Jonah tells me that's a misprint. John Polidori wrote this."

"Mm." Barnabas shifts around to lay on his back instead, looking at Jonathan's face from below, and he smiles when Jonathan caresses his cheek. "Am I the only one who thinks it's kind of... rousing?"

Jonathan tilts his head down to make sure he sees Barnabas through his glasses. "Yes, it is meant to be thrilling."

Barnabas scowls. "You know that's not what I mean."

"Erotic, then?"

Sensing something unexpectedly neutral in Jonathan's tone, Barnabas twists to regard Jonathan at a better angle. "You don't think so? A charming lord, all aloof and mysterious, yet capable of such brutality?"

"You don't even know it's Lord Ruthven," Jonathan points out.

"Of _course_ it is, why wouldn't it be?" Barnabas swats at Jonathan's arm, and he puts down the book.

"I'm joking, I'm joking. And I know what you mean." Jonathan takes a beat to introspect and then he sighs, shaking his head and slightly smiling at what he finds. "Suppose I'd rather be the monster than the prey in stories like this."

"Would you?"

"Would I what?"

"Play the monster. For me." Barnabas' eyes are glittering with ideas, and Jonathan finds that there's simply no denying him when he gets this way.

"Pretend that I'm a vampyre?" Jonathan asks, brow and lip quirked with something like amusement.

"Don't say _pretend,_ Jonathan—that makes it sound frivolous. No, _act_ as a vampyre."

"Are you expecting me to wear a costume?"

Barnabas counters Jonathan's chuckle with an earnest, "Would you, if I made you one?"

"That seems a lot of effort for a private performance."

"But would you?"

"Hypothetically? Yes." Jonathan musses Barnabas' hair and cards his fingers through it as he often does to his own when he is lost in thought. When he speaks again, his question is cautious; shy. "Would you let me bleed you?"

The words inspire surprise in Barnabas, compelling him to sit upright, the better to look Jonathan in the eye. "Do you mean in a medical way?"

"Yes. I do. I can still bite your neck as if I were drinking your blood, but you... You mentioned being curious about me hurting you, and, well..." Jonathan trails off, gaze travelling down Barnabas' shoulder, down his arm, down to the table. Looking anywhere but at Barnabas' certain judgement.

"Jonathan..." Barnabas breathes. He decides that he will tolerate Jonathan's discomfort no longer, and he gathers him up into his arms in a comfortingly firm embrace. "Jonathan, I trust you. If that's what you would like, then that's what we'll do."  
  


* * *

  
Scene: Evening. The drawing room of Barnabas Bennett, which now serves as the office of Doctor Jonathan Fanshawe. Upstage, cabinets filled with various bottles and baskets. To the left, a table with a steaming washbasin and a basket of linens. A washcloth is draped over the side of the basin, dipping into the hot water. To the right, two windows with burgundy curtains, both of them closed. In the centre, an elegantly decorated examination table with a padded surface and various drawers. The wallpaper is buttermilk yellow. Sounds of rain and the occasional roll of thunder can be heard outside. The room is lit by several candles in mirror-backed wall sconces.

Jonathan Fanshawe takes a clean apron from the cabinet and puts it on. He fastens the buttonhole at the top to the first button of his waistcoat, then ties the apron around his waist.

A knock at the door.

"Come in," Dr. Fanshawe says. He begins to roll up his sleeves.

Enter Barnabas Bennett, dressed in day clothes. His cheeks are lightly rouged and his demeanour is nervous.

"Please, sit down," Dr. Fanshawe invites, gesturing to the examination table.

Barnabas sits. He fidgets with the button of his cuff.

Dr. Fanshawe circles around the table to come face-to-face with his patient. He braces a hand just beside Barnabas' thigh, supporting his weight as he leans in, close and intimate. "And what seems to be the problem today, Mr. Bennett?"

Barnabas pauses, absently staring at the washbasin. "I... I apologize, it's difficult for me to focus."

"Take your time." Dr. Fanshawe attempts a small smile.

"I've had a mild fever for the past two days. And this morning, I woke up with my heart pounding in my head and chest. It hasn't stopped."

"I should certainly hope not," Dr. Fanshawe jokes, drawing a nervous smile from his patient. He rests the back of his hand across Barnabas' forehead to check his temperature. "You do seem feverish. Do you have any other symptoms?"

"No, just those."

Withdrawing his hand, Dr. Fanshawe hums in consideration. "Given the sanguine nature of your symptoms—fever, heart palpitations, an unnatural flush to your skin—the natural treatment to recommend is bloodletting."

 _"Bloodletting?"_ Barnabas repeats, voice pitched incredulously high. "Is that really necessary?"

Dr. Fanshawe's eyes narrow. "Are _you_ a physician, Mr. Bennett?"

"I... no."

"Then trust my years of experience in this field when I tell you that I have seen positive results with bloodletting as a treatment for cases such as yours." Dr. Fanshawe crisply tells him. He crosses the room to begin rummaging through one of the cabinets, collecting tools into a metal basin.

When Barnabas speaks, his voice is small and barely audible over the sounds Dr. Fanshawe is making. "I must confess, I do not do well with the sight of blood."

Dr. Fanshawe looks back over his shoulder. "Have you been known to faint?"

"On occasion, yes."

"Then we'll lay you down," Dr. Fanshawe says, matter-of-factly. On the examination table, he pulls out the topmost drawer—more of a tray, really, it's so shallow—and sets down and arranges his tools so that he may work. "Roll up your sleeve, please. Would you prefer to be blindfolded?"

Despite this being something the two of them had previously negotiated, hearing the hypothetical spoken aloud sends a frisson of excitement up Barnabas' spine. He fumbles with undoing his cuff, swallows, and finds his voice again. "I think that would be for the best."

Dr. Fanshawe uses a roll of bandages for this purpose, wrapping them around Barnabas' head, adjusting them to make sure they cover his eyes, and tying them off not directly behind Barnabas' head but off-centre so he does not have to rest his weight upon the knot when Fanshawe eases him down to lay supine on the table. He finishes what Barnabas had started, rolling the sleeve up past Barnabas' elbow to leave his forearm bare. He maps his circulation with the delicate trace of two fingers; ulnar and radial, down the two arteries, a pause at the wrist, and back up to follow the path of the veins. Barnabas is too dark and too soft for them to be visible aside from in his wrist and palm, but Fanshawe knows his anatomy well. Knows just where to position the knife over Barnabas' flesh when he takes it into his hand.

"Are you ready, Mr. Bennett?" The doctor asks.

And Barnabas, blind and trembling and _trusting,_ tells him, "Yes."

The blade bites into Barnabas sharper than he expected, and it's the chill, more than anything, that makes Barnabas recoil from its touch. Fanshawe, being a responsible man, pauses and lifts the knife from his skin. "You have to be still," the doctor says. "I am going to bleed you, but I don't want to cause damage."

Barnabas feels a hand wrap around his wrist, pinning it to the table. Barnabas clenches his hand into a fist and tries to raise it—testing his restraints. Fanshawe doesn't let him move. _Good._ "I apologize. It's sensitive."

A long pause. Barnabas thinks that Jonathan must be searching his face for a sign that he is still fine with this. Which he is, although he does not tell him so. He hopes his slight smile and the relaxation of his arm in Jonathan's grip convey enough.

"Keep still," instructs Dr. Fanshawe, and he traces over the line he earlier made, opening it up properly.

The knife _drags_ along his skin, slow and precise, and Barnabas grits his teeth as he acclimates to the pain. When his conscious thoughts return to him, Barnabas imagines the feeling of shears ripping through tweed, and his mind invents the accompanying tearing sound where the room is quiet. And then the feeling is gone; over.

Dr. Fanshawe shifts his weight. The sound of the table's tray being disturbed. Thumbs on Barnabas' forearm, pulling the incision wider apart. It _smarts,_ but it's intimate in a novel way, being seen so, and Barnabas makes no complaint.

Barnabas can picture Jonathan's scowl when he hears him make that displeased hum of his, most often encountered when Jonathan is reading the newspaper and doubts the veracity of the words in front of him. And so, he is not surprised when he hears Jonathan sigh and say, "It's not bleeding enough. Stay where you are, please."

Steps, and stillness, and the trickle of water. A cloth being wrung out. More steps, and the touch of damp warmth on his inner arm, wiping the blood away. Barnabas has always liked bathing in intimate company, though Jonathan often declines his invitations to join him. Perhaps he'll ask again, once the evening's through.

Idly, Barnabas wonders where Jonathan is going with this. Wonders when he'll sink his knife into him again or snap and bite into his neck. But Jonathan likes to stretch his encounters out long, if watching him with Jonah is anything to go by—which makes sense, given his enjoyment seems much more focused on the journey than the destination.

Much of the time in his encounters, be they sexual or sadomasochistic, Jonathan chooses not to get off. After the first few instances of his offers to assist being declined, Barnabas had a talk with him about it. Barnabas made it a point to reassure him that regardless of his anatomy, he still believes Jonathan as much a man as any of their fellows—growing up with Jonah, he'd learned the importance of offering that type of support early on in life. Jonathan had sighed, and poured himself a bracing drink, and let Barnabas know that he is very aware of that fact and grateful for it. _"That doesn't stop it from feeling **wrong** sometimes,"_ he'd said, and _"I don't always feel the need to. It's not that I don't find you attractive—I find you very attractive indeed, especially when I'm taking you apart—but it doesn't always translate into the need to finish."_

 _"But you **do** enjoy yourself,"_ Barnabas had asked, seeking confirmation.

 _"Very much so, rest assured,"_ and Jonathan had leaned in to kiss him on the temple.

Barnabas did not _quite_ understand, and to be honest, he doubts that he would ever be able to. But he trusts that Jonathan meant what he said in that he gets _some_ form of enjoyment out of their encounters.

"Remove your trousers," Dr. Fanshawe tells him now—and that, Barnabas _does_ understand. He would grin, but he has a role he's crafted; a character to maintain.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your trousers. It will be much easier to bleed you if I make the incision in your thigh."

Barnabas' hands hover near the fastenings even as he points out, "This seems highly improper—"

"—I am a professional, Mr. Bennett. I know what I'm doing. If modesty is your concern, I can give you a towel to cover yourself."

Barnabas pauses for a moment to give the impression of considering the offer, though he does not need to. "No, it's fine," he eventually sighs, and makes to push the blindfold up to his forehead so that he may see what he's doing with the buttons.

Jonathan catches him by the wrist before he can do so, chiding him for his attempt. "Ah-ah... You said you swooned at the sight of blood. Wouldn't want that to happen, now would we? Please, allow me."

That playful tone of voice does some _insistent_ things to Barnabas' desire indeed. It is the comforting type of familiar to have Jonathan undo his buttons and pull his trousers down his hips now, and all Barnabas is expected to do is brace his feet on the table and raise himself up for a moment to make Jonathan's task easier for him. He is still in his drawers, though they do little to conceal his excitement.

Dr. Fanshawe, ever the professional, chooses not to comment on this. He rests a grounding hand upon Barnabas' thigh above his knee and takes the blade into his practiced hand. Again he asks Barnabas if he is ready, and again, the answer is yes.

This time, Dr. Fanshawe does not limit himself to just one cut. He carves a series of them into Barnabas, a neat array of parallel lines, and he pins his patient to the table with force, lest he spoil the work by moving.

Barnabas swears he's sinking the blade in deeper with each new incision. He swears aloud, in between the whimpering that he cannot silence. His hands grip hard to the side of the table and he wants to kick, wants to arch away from the pain, but he is well aware he shouldn't. So he doesn't, and makes his leg into the only part of him that _isn't_ shaking.

When it is over, Dr. Fanshawe releases his thigh and he can feel the blood trickling down, how the droplets quicken on their paths as he trembles. Like water on a windowpane.

He can hear the rain outside. Barnabas focuses on that. Releases the breath he was holding and unwinds the tension in his muscles. The lip of a metal basin presses up against his leg to collect the blood, held in place by Jonathan. He's here. He's got him.

"Well done," Dr. Fanshawe says. He cannot keep the genuine fondness out of his voice, and nor would Barnabas wish him to. "That's much better. Now, shall we do the other one?"

Barnabas sucks in a strained breath. He's not sure if that's safe or wise, doesn't know if he _wants_ to endure more of that—he doesn't have Jonah's masochistic streak and being sliced open is alien and he doesn't know what to make of it yet. All of that concern is distilled into him incredulously repeating, "The _other_ one?"

"Yes." Jonathan's hand rests on Barnabas' thigh where he'd pinned it down before, and the other takes his hand, thumbing over the back of it, a reassuring and familiar comfort. "Barnabas, if you don't want to..."

Jonathan is breaking character just to say that. He wants to make sure that Barnabas is okay. A feeling of some nameless warmth swells in his chest and Barnabas squeezes Jonathan's hand back. "No, no, I'm fine—it just hurt more than I expected."

"Would you like me to take the blindfold off?"

Barnabas considers this: the sightlessness heightens the pain, sure enough, but between that and running the risk of moving to get away from watching Jonathan cut into him, he thinks he'll take the former. "I think it would be worse if I _can_ see."

"Right, if you're sure. Don't feel like you have to monitor yourself. Protest or struggle if you want to. That's what your signal is for."

Barnabas recalls the last time he'd plead for Jonathan to stop, his words acknowledged but deliberately disregarded: Jonathan had first taken him from below with Barnabas kneeling astride him, then from behind when Jonathan grew impatient, mounting him like a _beast_ , a firm hand wrapped around the back of his neck and smashing his face into the pillow. Barnabas had come screaming, his whole body alight, and Jonathan had kept on going. Flipped him on his back and settled overtop of his body to see the redness in his teary eyes and sunk his cock back inside to have Barnabas shake and call for mercy. Jonathan, fondling his dripping, half-soft cock, reminded Barnabas that he had a signal to use if it was honestly too much.

Barnabas didn't. Not when Jonathan bucked into him with the kind of ferocity that a flesh-and-blood dick would surely find painful, and not when Jonathan shuddered and choked on a breathy cry. He's quiet when he comes, almost always, and Barnabas has never asked but he thinks it must be that Jonathan dislikes how high his voice can get, which would make sense. Barnabas respectfully disagrees with that opinion, for he finds charm in any voice of Jonathan's, from his early-morning grumbling to those rare times he gets to listen to him find release. How could he cower away from enduring a bit of torment at Jonathan's hands when _that_ was his reward?

"I know," Barnabas says smiling. "I'm fine, I promise."

Jonathan does not press him for any further confirmation, and after a long moment of deliberation, leans in to press a kiss to Barnabas' cheek. Then the moving of tools: the removal of the basin, the picking-up of the surgeon's knife (or so Barnabas assumes), and the footsteps around the table over to Barnabas' other side.

Barnabas is better braced for harm this time around. He counts the stripes, comforting himself with the familiarity of numbers, taking his attention away from his body. Submitting to this is an irrational thing: it's dangerous and sharp and he is losing blood but still the cuts come, biting in, rending skin and fat and muscle and he imagines ruining light trousers with bloodstains soaking through the bandages tomorrow when they chafe his wounds open, and people will see and people will ask and—

Why is he doing this? Why did he _suggest_ this? He doesn't have Jonah's strength of will, nor his affinity for seeking out pain. Barnabas is breathing ragged and weeping and looking _pathetic,_ surely, and he is thankful that he doesn't have to see Jonathan looking at him with pity.

The blade leaves. The basin comes. More trickling, more shivering.

Barnabas isn't sure whether or not Jonathan is breaking character when he tells him, "Well done." The touch on his thighs, pulling his legs slightly apart, doesn't feel terribly professional. Jonathan massages his legs with a firm touch, taking attention away from the persistent sting and circulating his blood up to where it can drain out of him. Barnabas is thankful for the solidness of Jonathan's hands. They keep him pinned in the scene. Keep his mind from wandering. Quell the panic before it can overtake him.

Dr. Fanshawe keeps a hand resting on Barnabas' ankle as he reaches for something that scrapes across the floor. From the sounds of that and the faint creaking as it settles, Barnabas supposes that he has taken a seat.

"Would you kindly sit up for me, Mr. Bennett?" he asks. Gives his leg a faint tug to encourage directionality into Barnabas' motion. "Legs over the side of the table, if you please."

It aches to rise and his head feels like it's swimming, but Barnabas does so. One of his feet bumps into Jonathan during his repositioning. He feels a towel dab at him—keeping the blood from dripping to the floor or on Jonathan, probably. It's most likely also the reason why Jonathan pushes the hems of his drawers upwards. Barnabas is made acutely aware that Jonathan is sitting between his legs, _massaging_ at his thighs again, and commenting on how much better his circulation is looking—which is an interesting euphemism for speaking on Barnabas' growing erection, in his opinion.

Dr. Fanshawe pinches him up high, above the cuts, and Barnabas winces. "Just inspecting your colour," he explains. And then he inspects it closer, close enough for Barnabas to feel his breath ghost across blood-dampened flesh.

When the bite comes, Barnabas is not surprised, but the sharpness of it makes him yelp all the same. He doesn't struggle—truth be told, he's too stunned to consider it as a possibility. The sucking sounds are _obscene_ to Barnabas' blindness-honed hearing and he cannot help but recall all the times that he has heard the same, Jonathan between his legs and pleasuring him by low light in the secrecy of his bedchamber. Barnabas sounds lewd himself by the time Jonathan withdraws, panting and failing to speak. A tongue swipes across his flesh, rasping at his wounds like a cat grooming itself. Barnabas hears a groan and isn't entirely sure of which of them made it.

" _Surely_ that cannot be sanitary," Barnabas gasps, not expecting this level of commitment to the character from Jonathan. A bit of biting and drawing blood is one thing, but _actually drinking it_ is entirely another.

Jonathan chuckles against his skin, the vibrations mixing with the baseline of tense trembling. It's a _highly_ attractive sound, in Barnabas' opinion. "Waste not," Dr. Fanshawe says, and gives him one more languid lick before he switches over to the other thigh, kissing and tonguing him and _moaning._ By the time he is finished Barnabas is desperately hard in his drawers.

But Dr. Fanshawe doesn't make to undress him. No, he _leaves_ his side to gather up supplies again and sit back down to wash and dress his wounds. The professionalism is infuriating—couldn't this wait? Why go through all that effort to tease him and then cut it off by performing medical tasks? Jonathan _must_ know that he's being a terrible tease, but Barnabas says nothing as he keeps still for him.

The stool gets kicked aside as Dr. Fanshawe stands between his legs and begins to untie the blindfold. There's a gentle press of a wrist on his jaw and the gentle command of, "Look away, please," encouraging Barnabas to crane his neck to follow. The room isn't bright, but Barnabas still blinks in the light and finds a spot to focus on—the decorative carvings at the top of the row of cabinets—as he allows Dr. Fanshawe to do as he pleases. He supposes that he is to look away while the wound on his arm is bandaged, so he plays along. Jonathan stays close to him while he does this with his hip leaning on the table and his nose near Barnabas' shirt-collar, and remains so as he secures the bandage with a knot.

Barnabas isn't sure of what to do then. Is this over? Jonathan isn't speaking, so perhaps he wants Barnabas to say something. "Erm... Thank you, Dr. Fanshawe? Am I free to leave?"

"In a moment," Dr. Fanshawe responds. He is still close enough to kiss, but the distance inspires dread in Barnabas given the context of the scene. That feeling intensifies when he sees the redness sticking to Dr. Fanshawe's gums, the way it clings in the gaps between his teeth. How much _had_ he bled? "There is still the matter of payment to settle."

"Payment? How wou—" and Barnabas is cut off by a genuine yell of pain.

Several things happen at once. Dr. Fanshawe's teeth are in his neck, which was to be expected, but the _ferocity_ of the bite comes as a shock to Barnabas. Between the overwhelming, bruising force and Jonathan's honest-to-God snarl, Barnabas feels as though he's being savaged by an animal. But no, that's not correct, not when there is a hand stuffed down his underclothes and wrapped around his cock, harsh and tight, though Barnabas can hardly appreciate it through the agony. Instinct makes an honest effort to get him to buck up into the touch with nothing to brace against, though.

Barnabas is left panting when Dr. Fanshawe releases on the bite. The practical part of him is concerned about exsanguination; of the sucking on the wound being not theatrics but true blood loss—but Barnabas doesn't _care_ about that, not when he's grinding up into Jonathan's touch, desperate for more motion, more friction. _"Oh fuck, fuck... Please, I—"_

And then Dr. Fanshawe disengages with his hands and mouth both, and Barnabas doesn't know whether he wants to punch him or cling to him. He does the latter, gripping on tight to his arms and shirtsleeves.

Dr. Fanshawe pushes his drawers down just enough to free Barnabas' cock to the open air, laughing his infuriatingly smug chuckle as he does it. "Well. I'm impressed that you still have enough blood left in your body to manage this."

Barnabas flushes scarlet, feeling like he's just been punched in the gut. He should find that _morbid,_ not exhilarating—but Jonathan's voice could make an awful lot of dangerous things sound enticing. Jonathan takes his cock into his fist once more, and it makes being ripped apart by his teeth almost worth it.

Dr. Fanshawe is no less gentle with the second bite, but Barnabas is well-prepared and well-distracted. He thinks about fangs piercing him, and about blood painting Jonathan's chin, running down his chest to dye his shirt burgundy-red. He thinks about the pallor of cold skin and about unnatural strength—which is easy with the sharp pace of Jonathan jerking him off again, because he can't tell whether or not his hands started cold when his cock and friction have been warming them. Barnabas thinks about possession and _belonging;_ of having a purpose and a place beside Jonathan, obedient and blithely unquestioning.

Barnabas would like that, he thinks. Serving Jonathan. He likes that idea a lot.

Barnabas keeps those thoughts in mind as his breathing stutters and he shakes and Jonathan holds him there, palm splayed out over his lower back. He begs, of course—he frequently does, using Jonathan's name until the bite intensifies and he changes it to, _"Doctor Fanshawe,"_ over and over, in all its pleading permutations. Barnabas begs until he is beyond words and thought entirely, and he makes a mess all over Dr. Fanshawe's clean white apron.

Dr. Fanshawe laughs at him again, soft and gentle, close to Barnabas' ear when the vicious bite ends. He is tender with licking into and sucking at the abused flesh, furiously red and dotted with pale outlines. "I think that will do nicely," he murmurs, and raises his hand to taste what of Barnabas' come has trickled down over his knuckles.

A pathetic, breathy moan rises from Barnabas' throat at the sight of it. He lets Jonathan go to let his arms support his weight, resting on the examination table. Jonathan leaves him, for a moment: still in full view, just over to the basin to wash his hands. He carries a damp cloth back on his return and Barnabas allows him to clean his cock off with a hint of a smile, because Jonathan is frequently this endearingly fastidious about hygiene. It's more cute than it is arousing, but it definitely still falls into a doctor's duties. The same goes for his drawers being set right. With the bandages around his thighs he dreads attempting to get back into his trousers, so Barnabas leaves them be and Jonathan doesn't touch them either.

Jonathan unties and unbuttons his apron, depositing it in the basket which holds the other soiled linens. "Can you stand?" he asks, extending a hand to help Barnabas down from the table. "Careful, now."

Barnabas is unsteady on his feet, doubly hazy from the blood loss and the orgasm. Jonathan leads him into the parlour by the hand and arranges him on the room's most comfortable settee, sitting him down and giving him a blanket for his lap. Jonathan gives him a kiss on the forehead too and gets him a glass of water and a glass of brandy. Brings the remainder of the gingerbread, still in its baking tin, along with two forks. And then, at last, he joins him in sitting down.

"You're so doting," Barnabas teases, leaning his cheek against Jonathan's shoulder. "You're always so doting."

"It's the least I can do." Jonathan lays out a napkin and pulls the baking tin in to rest it upon his thigh, allowing him to wrap an arm around Barnabas. Very carefully so as not to tip it over, he cuts off a corner of the gingerbread loaf, spears it with his fork, and pops it into his mouth.

Barnabas kisses him on the shoulder before he straightens up just enough to grab a fork and start cutting into the dessert himself. "Did you have a good time, _Doctor_ Fanshawe?" He asks on a laugh.

Jonathan echoes the sound and squeezes Barnabas in appreciation. "That I did. Did you?"

Barnabas, his mouth currently full of gingerbread, hums in the affirmative. "Mhmm." He washes it down with a mouthful of brandy. "I think I'm starting to understand the appeal of that sort of thing."

_"'That sort of thing'?"_

"The danger. It's... thrilling."

"Intense?" Jonathan suggests.

"Yes, that."

They are quiet for a time, continuing to eat and to enjoy each other's closeness. The rain drums down outside, but they feel all the warmer and cozier in here for it. Jonathan is the one to break the near-silence by asking, "Any feedback for next time?"

"Oh, so there's going to be a next time?" Barnabas exaggerates his intrigue because he knows it makes Jonathan smile. Which he does.

"Of course, if you liked it." Jonathan brushes the hair away from Barnabas' forehead, and he can see the raised, excited eyebrows beneath.

"Hmmm..." Barnabas makes a show of thinking, exaggerating that too: the drama of the earlier scene continues into this one. "You could stand to fuck me next time."

"I didn't want to overwhelm you with too much at once, dear."

"So responsible. So _professional,"_ and Barnabas toys with the waistcoat button where Jonathan affixed his apron.

Jonathan is positively beaming when he tells Barnabas to, "Stop it."

"All right, all right. But seriously. How would you feel about something like... mind control?"

"Mind control?" Now it's Jonathan's turn for his eyebrows to raise in genuine interest.

"Mm. Vampyres are supposed to be supernaturally charming, right? So you could seduce me. Ask me to do things I normally wouldn't." Barnabas' cheeks are warming at the admission, and do so even further at Jonathan's next words.

"Are you saying that you need a bit of _encouragement_ to be properly whorish, then?"

Barnabas doesn't need to see Jonathan's face to know that he is grinning—which he cannot, as he's tucked his red face into the space between Jonathan's shirtsleeve and waistcoat. "You're the worst," he laments.

"But am I wrong?"

A long, long pause. A sigh. "....No." Barnabas raises his head to look at him, and Jonathan leans in to kiss his pouting lips. They kiss for a while, and Jonathan sets the baking tin aside to cover Barnabas with his body and kiss Barnabas some more, making up for all of the restraint they'd shown each other earlier.

Jonathan takes Barnabas to bed shortly afterwards. He dresses in a nightshirt and Barnabas wears only his bandages. Jonathan kisses him on every one of the marks he left, lips brushing over bruise and linen alike, while Barnabas' breath catches in anticipation of pain which does not come as Jonathan makes his soft and wordless apologies.

Barnabas rolls them over and makes his own apologies for not thinking to ask if Jonathan wanted to be touched before, and though Jonathan tells him to think nothing of it, Barnabas admits with playful levity that it was _terribly_ rude of him. So Barnabas buries his face in between Jonathan's thighs and Jonathan moans Barnabas' praises to the ceiling—he doesn't like to watch if there aren't any prosthetics involved, which suits Barnabas just fine. He can keep his eyes mostly-closed too and focus on the scent and taste of him, rich and potent and all-encompassing. And just to have a small bit of revenge, Barnabas gives him a love-bite on his inner thigh while Jonathan is riding the waves of bliss, and that _does_ get him to look, if only to let Barnabas see his scoff and tender glare.

The pair of them sleep deeply, exhausted in body and mind both. Barnabas is the first to rouse for once, and for once he has motivation enough to leave the bed in favour of his dressing-chair. But before he dresses, he peels off his bandages to see whether they will need replacing.

Where Barnabas had expected to see the rusty colour of old blood, the bandages are entirely free from any stain. On his thighs and his arm were deep gashes, surely—Jonathan's knife in him had stung like nothing else. He had _felt_ himself bleed. But upon his skin there are scarcely more than pinked scratches, and Barnabas runs a thumb across them to confirm their presence. He looks over at Jonathan's peacefully sleeping form, and the phrase 'like the dead' comes unbidden into his mind and brings a smile to his lips.

Regardless of whether his injuries are the trickery of smoke and mirrors or some genuine supernatural craft, Barnabas looks forward to having an entertaining conversation with him over breakfast.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> A lot of the scene going on _was_ smoke and mirrors after all. If you're curious about what Jonathan was actually up to, please highlight the following text:
> 
> Jonathan was using a deliberately dulled blade, going slow, and not pressing down especially hard—Barnabas' mind was inventing most of the pain that there was. For the sensation of blood, Jonathan kept the washcloth close at hand and squeezed it to drip just a bit of water on the cuts as he was making them. As for the "blood" on his teeth, Jonathan just took a mouthful of tomato sauce or something else red before he removed the blindfold.
> 
> The absolutely phenomenal artwork was done by [dundee](https://twitter.com/dundeedeerling) (linework) and [gummybyrd](https://twitter.com/gummybyrd) (rendering). I'm in love with everything about this piece. You people are fantastic.
> 
> Huge thank you to [FiligreeOwl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiligreeOwl) and [spiraldistortion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualthorin/pseuds/spiraldistortion) for the wonderful beta reading.
> 
> And as always, thanks to the Jonah server for being horrible enablers.
> 
> Leto can be found on tumblr @auto-didact (general) and @divorcecravat (TMA), or on twitter @quickenedsilver.


End file.
